


Years of War

by giraffles



Series: Heavenfall [2]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: (no), Maybe - Freeform, Other, Pre-Canon, Sad, he'll marry the space grape eventually tho, it'll be fine, it's so sad i'm sorry, mentions of abuse, sorta??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 16:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5973451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffles/pseuds/giraffles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>''Take one last look at what you're leaving behind, 'cause there's no coming back once we go.''</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He is two and a half, in Saiyan years, when his parents first talk about what to do with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Years of War

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-canon, lots of sad Tarble feels because I'm a terrible person.

He is two and a half, in Saiyan years, when his parents first talk about what to do with him. 

The queen thinks he should just be gutted and the whole issue dealt with. The king objects; not for his sake, you see, but the image that will produce. 

He is a disgrace to his name, their race, everything that is important. He has known this since he was able to comprehend basic concepts and put names to faces. He has felt it even more keenly since his brother left. 

So it is not a surprise then when he is nearly four and they place him in a pod. Dress him up in a battle suit and armor, give him a scouter and stern instructions to make his people proud. They do not give him the royal colors, no emblem to be worn brazenly on his chest, not even a token from their homeworld. He knows even then that he is being sent off to die. 

He surprisingly manages not to cry through the whole process. Not when he realizes he will never come home. Not when his mother looks at him with a glance of such cold indifference it could freeze the blood in his veins. Not even when he realizes he agrees with her, that it would have been better if he had never been born. No, the tears can wait until later, once he’s far enough away that they can’t shame him for weeping like a newborn. 

The stasis in the pod is some form of relief, at least until he crashes down on a faraway planet. It’s just like sleeping, but without dreams of either unspeakable horrors or scenes of imaginary bliss. It’s hard to tell which one of those is worse in the long run. They’re both lies, but they both hurt just the same. 

The planet he’s sent to is comparable in size to the one he’s come from, maybe a tad smaller, though he can’t feel much of a change in the gravity. It’s purple, sort of, shifting in shades anywhere between lavender and magenta and indigo. It’s a wet planet too, and hazy in an strange way that keeps him from doing more than peaking out of the pod, though the landscape of the impact crater isn’t much to look at. It’s very un-Saiyan-like to be hiding in a ship as he is, but that’s the whole reason he’s here, isn’t it, because he’s not Saiyan enough? Some alien creature calls out in the distance and he makes the very safe decision that he is never, ever, leaving this pod. 

He crawls out of it two days later, too hungry to keep hidden any longer. 

The area is wild, which is at the same time a blessing and a curse, because when he dies it won’t be at the hands of some sapient creature but most likely a local beast. He can only hope he’s small and unassuming enough to maybe not look like a tasty morsel. He hates the armor he’s in, so very different from the flowing clothes lined with discs and bells, but leaves it on for the sake of protection. He might be a runt with a measly power level, but he’s not an idiot. 

If he was more like his brother he would have made a promise to live just to spite them. Maybe make plans to one day come back and wreak revenge. Tear down an empire to make a crown for his head. But he’s not his brother; that’s entirely the problem that got him in this mess in the first place. He misses him more than words could tell. 

The plants are all silvery, with flowers and vines in shocks of bright red, and he wonders how they grow and bloom and which ones might be poisonous when touched. He pokes some with his tail experimentally, just to be sure they’re not dangerous. Nothing happens. This is good. This is progress. There is no reason to panic yet, or despair, because it’s not over until he says it’s over. The stubbornness is one of the few things he inherited from his parents. He decides to press onward into the undergrowth and see what lies amongst the twisting trees. At least, he assumes they’re trees. They could really be large ferns for all he knows. 

Finding food is a challenge. In theory, they can eat just about anything— plants, insects, meat, anything that hasn’t been out in the sun too long. And even then, things that would make other races sick are of little concern to a Saiyan who wants something edible. But that doesn’t mean he’s about to start sticking any thing and everything into his mouth. He has read all sorts of books and files on a great many things, from science to philosophy to yes, even war and power. There were a few on survival he perused simply out of boredom and for the images of foreign and green worlds that were in such contrast to all their sand and red. He’s very glad to have consumed everything he could have while he had the chance. 

He shuffles about and finds something akin to fruit in one of the trees. It’s black, it’s bitter, but it’s better than starving for another day. He decides it’s best to stay where he is, up high and hidden by leaves and not a target on open ground. So he curls up as small as he can in a break in the branches and is asleep before the murky sun sets. 

 

♤

Something tries to eat him. Something else chases him into a river. Burrs find their way into the fur of his tail and don’t want to be unmated and removed. He’s never been one to consume a lot of food, but it’s more scarce than he would like, and he’s not ready to try to hunt something for meat. The thought of having to kill something with his own hands makes him dizzy. He’s filthy and he’s tired and he wants to go home. 

Except there is no home now. There’s just the dusk and the forest on a planet he doesn’t even know the name of. It’s not fair. 

This is not living, but it is surviving. He’s been surviving since the day he was born.

♤

He nearly has a heart attack when he wakes up to a roundish alien looking at him curiously; he does however fall squealing from his treetop perch. They’re screaming, he’s screaming, and they’re not off to a great first contact. There’s a tiny chip in his skull should be able to translate over a hundred common languages in the universe, and it should still be working-- but it needs real words to function. Not distressed screeching. But, in his defense, he wasn’t really thinking straight while panicking and looking for an escape route. 

The alien loses their balance too and comes tumbling out beside him, which only means more yelling and flailing, and the overwhelming instinct to run away run away run away—

For some reason the fact that he can just fly away escapes him and he tries to scramble away on foot instead. Which doesn’t get him very far when he trips over roots and vines and becomes entangled in them, putting him face-first into the dirt. Ungraceful, embarrassing, and probably the last mistake he’ll ever make. He can feel the alien standing over him now, looming dark, and waits for the killing blow to fall. 

But it never comes. There are long, agonizing moments of silence, but no violence results from it. The alien shuffles awkwardly. 

“Are you… alright?” Comes the soft voice accompanied by a small touch on his shoulder. He flinches involuntarily. He doesn’t move. 

“You’re not… you’re not dead, are you?” The alien continues, “Oh no, oh no, I killed it—”

“Not dead.” He mumbles from the dirt, almost getting a mouthful of leaves. But goddess, he does feel like he might as well be dead. It’s also strange to talk after so long, after so many quiet days of no conversation or intelligent contact. “I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure?”Small hands on the end of rope-like limbs are trying to pull him up. He relents and lets them, figuring there can’t be any harm in letting them help. “You fell an awfully long way.”

Then he’s back on his feet, with the alien attempting to brush the worst of the mud stains on them. Many are now weeks old though, and don’t budge even under the insistent patting. They’re not much taller than he is, but then again, he’s always been unusually small. They frown at him. He’s frozen in place, tail bristling uncontrollably, the urge to bolt rising as a tide within him. Maybe if he breaks left, he can dash past them, find a place to hide—

“I’m sorry for startling you.” They pull a bag off their shoulder and place it on the sterling grass, “But I guess you startled me too! I thought you might have been stuck.” 

They dump the contents of the bag out; what looks to be some pieces of tech, things he recognizes as some sort of scroll, some rattling metal containers, and a box that they scoop up. He trembles nervously. Nothing looks like a weapon, but looks can be deceiving. Like the tiny dagger that’s hidden in his armor that he can’t ever imagine drawing and trying to use. But he has it, maybe he can take it out, bluff and then run when has an opening. 

They open the box and inside is medical supplies. They grab his hand, and start wiping at the scrape he hadn’t realized he had. He’s numb. It’s been so long since anyone has shown him an ounce of kindness that he’s not sure how to react. His eyes start to cloud and his breath catches. This can’t be happening. 

“H-hey! I’m sorry! Did I hurt you?” They’re fussing over him, a concerned edge rising in their voice, but he can’t find his own to reply. He’s a mess. He’s a mess that no one in their right mind would want to bother with. 

And yet, they are. A stranger, on a planet he is an intruder to, is asking him not to cry and attempting bridge the gap of species and culture. And he can’t handle it. The contact overwhelms him like nothing else. He was cracked before he arrived, made up of hairline fractures; now he’s breaking and nothing can stop it. 

He’s crumbling, and still they stay. He tries to reign back in some control, because what would his family think of him now, in such a state in front of an enemy? But are they the enemy? Who is he really fighting for, or against, or with? He never wanted to fight at all. So why does he still care about their opinion? 

Maybe because a small, insistent part of him had still hoped. Had still wanted to go back even if it meant a life of shame and misery. He was always too sentimental, too wishful, clinging to the idea that maybe things could change. But they never did. It was hell from day to day; the scenery just changed. 

He desperately wants it to be different. Something has to give. He doesn’t want to be involved in this battle anymore. It was never his war to begin with, he didn’t start it, and he’s in no position to finish it. Let someone with the strength and Saiyan resolve take up the torch and set fire to the universe. He is not the soldier anyone wants. 

So when they ask him if he’ll come home with them, he accepts. It’s still terrifying. They might still string him up in the square once they realize his affiliations. Or it might be a ruse to try to get information out of him. It doesn’t matter. He can’t spend another day out there alone and lost and fraying at the seams. 

Just this once, he’ll take a risk.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to say it got better from here but since it's technically in the Heavenfall verse that's a dirty lie. B) But Gure to the rescue, bless her little grape heart. And it was hard to remember to use gender neutral pronouns for her just because it's from Tarbs point of view and he is a very nice child who knows you shouldn't ever assume gender, especially when in space. c: I'm tempted to do a second part for Gure, but for now it'll stand as it is. Thanks for reading!


End file.
